


I Focus On The Pain, The Only Thing That’s Real

by iamcoffeehawk



Series: Hurt [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Asshole IS a term of endearment, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Deaf Clint Barton, Hurt Clint Barton, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Non-Consensual Tattooing, off-screen violence, why is off-screen violence not a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26717149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamcoffeehawk/pseuds/iamcoffeehawk
Summary: Steve huffed a laugh before leaning down and touching his forehead to Clint’s as he settled a hand against the side of his neck, thumb brushing along his jawline, “Hey, asshole.” Clint’s grin widened into a full smile as he reached up and wrapped his fingers around Steve’s wrist and gave it a squeeze. Steve stayed crowded into his space, taking deep even breaths and Clint let himself float some more. He was safe. Clint felt a warm brush of lips on his forehead and a small, sleepy sound vibrated low in his throat as he slid back into the fuzzy depths of drugged sleep.Please note: no on screen violence but described/implied as well as a quick line regarding non-consensual tattooing.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Steve Rogers
Series: Hurt [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1416577
Comments: 10
Kudos: 22





	I Focus On The Pain, The Only Thing That’s Real

“Barton?”

Clint peeled his eyes open and, oh hey, when had they closed? He glanced around the hallway trying to gauge where he’d inadvertently decided to pass-out. His fuzzy vision settled on a familiar face standing over him. “Jesus?”

Bucky made his Grumpy Cat™ face at him, “Yeah, yeah. Yuck it up, pal.”

Clint huffed a laugh that turned into a groan as pain flared through his chest. Okay, so, crashing into the side of a building while swinging from his grappling arrow - and the subsequent drop into a dumpster - might not have been his best moment. But he’d learned over the years that no matter how aggressive the tail, 99% of them stopped chasing when their target leapt - or fell - off a building.

Clint closed one eye as he looked up at, now a singular, Bucky and wondered if anyone had ever offered to tie his hair back out of his face. Or give it a little trim. Maybe introduce the guy to conditioner.

Bucky frowned harder, “I don’t like the conditioner they gave me. It smells like pine, bergamot, and cotton. What the fuck is wrong with you future people? Can’t a guy just smell like soap?”

Aw, mouth, no ... had that been out loud?

Bucky extended his arm, waggling his fingers at Clint, “Let’s get you up off the floor.”

Clint extend his hand as the certainty that moving right now would be a **VERY. BAD. IDEA.** settled over him. Bucky slowly levered him up and about the time Clint crossed the 45 degree line his brain tried to leak out his ear and before he could blink he was on his hands and knees, forehead pressed to the cool floor as he violently dry heaved into the tile. Oh yeah, he definitely had a concussion. Futz.

When he could breathe steadily again Clint could feel a warm hand rubbing circles between his shoulder blades. “Okay, this looks bad,” he murmured into the tile.

Bucky grunted affirmatively, “You're worse than Stevie the night he came home after ‘winning’ a fight with the McMannus twins.” Bucky slid his hand up to Clint’s shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze as he continued to tell him all about pint-sized Steve and his inability to pass an alley without getting into a fight.

Clint slowly collapsed onto the floor, noting the tiles feeling as blessedly cool against his skin as they did was probably not a good thing. Sweating. He was definitely sweating from pain. “Buck. Imma pass out again.”

Bucky paused in his storytelling, sliding his hand back down between Clint’s shoulders, “Go ahead and do that, birdbrain.”

Clint was vaguely aware of slurring something about Greasy Jesus and his goats being a bunch of jackasses as darkness swallowed him completely.

Sensation swam up in pieces: soft but slightly-starched sheets; low-tone, steady beeping; slightly cool air pumping into his nose and, yeah, that needed to stop.

“Leave it,” and oooh, that was his CAPTAIN AMERICA voice.

Clint dropped his hand from where he had been trying to tug the cannula out of his nose and let a sly grin twitch across his lips, “Aye-aye, Captain.” He dragged his eyes open and, yup, he was in medical. Carefully rolling his head a bit to the right he located Steve, who was wearing his ‘I have concerns’ face. Steve studied him for a few seconds before giving Clint a small smile, and yeah that was better than whatever, frankly fucking fantastic stuff, they were pumping him full of for the pain. He felt float-float-floaty like a boat-boat-boaty and he was _GREAT_ at boats.

Steve huffed a laugh before leaning down and touching his forehead to Clint’s as he settled a hand against the side of his neck, thumb brushing along his jawline, “Hey, asshole.” Clint’s grin widened into a full smile as he reached up and wrapped his fingers around Steve’s wrist and gave it a squeeze. Steve stayed crowded into his space, taking deep even breaths and Clint let himself float some more. He was safe. Clint felt a warm brush of lips on his forehead and a small, sleepy sound vibrated low in his throat as he slid back into the fuzzy depths of drugged sleep.

.

.

.

.

.

He gasped in a painful breath as he was yanked out of a bucket of icy water by his hair, flung backward into a chair, and strapped down. He clenched his teeth as the needle bit into his left arm over and over. He turned his head away so he wouldn’t have to see what they were doing to him.

After they were done he was shoved into his cell so hard he fell onto his knees, barely getting his arms up in time to keep from smashing his face into the concrete floor. It had been a shock to discover he was vain about his face. He was in the middle of Russia in a black-site prison, it actually would help matters if he weren’t as pretty as he was. And yet here he was saving his face from getting marred because … because maybe someday someone would see his face and …. He shook his head violently to clear it of useless hopes. No one was coming for him. He was alone.

He shifted onto his back slowly, the burn of a fresh tattoo still singing on his skin - he’d learned, over time, to stop looking; one more visual reminder of what they’d turned him into - and whispered the only thing that he knew - suspected, hoped … prayed - to still be real: “My name is Clint Barton.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry it has taken so long to get this up, but *waves hands at the state of the world*
> 
> Also, if you live in the United States, please for the love of everything VOTE IN NOVEMBER. Vote like your life depends on it, because it does.


End file.
